Missing moment
by ClearClaire
Summary: A little bit of...


MISSING MOMENT

Disclaimers: Nothing mine, OK? I only hold myself responsible for the very errors and/or horrors I'm inflicting on you! Well...I'm Italian...English is definitely not my language...so...you see...I beg your pardon!

Yeah, I could use a review. I need an insult or so, it's my first fic ever!

"I love you. I know, it isn't either the right place or moment. Why just now? Why exactly today? Why have I changed my mind? Actually, I've ever been in love with you, I guess. There hasn't been a before and an afterwards. I didn't wake up this morning with this strange idea in my mind. I wasn't kidnapped by aliens and replaced with some mutant robot. It's me, only me…and, I hope, you. Us. You said there never would be, an us. In a certain sense you were right: yet then, even though we were denying it, there was something more than a simple us. I know, I haven't any right to say that to you, after hurting you so badly and so many times. It is years I keep telling myself I'm an idiot, and still I can hurt both of us with my own foolishness. Maybe that's the reason why I need you. Badly. I need somebody keeping reminding me, more than I do, to think before opening my big mouth, and think twice, and then just not open my big mouth. You are the one that really can do it. The one that really care for me. And the one I stubbornly keep hurting. Why haven't you left me to my idiocy yet? I love you, Sarah. It's late now, and you are absolutely right. Yet I keep loving you. Against any reasonableness. Year by year. I cannot envy the postman, the newspaper boy, the greengrocer and the Starbucks attendant that can see you and talk to you every day any more. I want to be the one to tell you goodnight in the evening, and the one to wake you with a kiss and a cup of coffee. I want to be the one to do your laundry and make love to you over the washing machine, waiting for the cycle to end. I want to be the one to fix healthy food for your lunch, to open the door and hug you when you come home in the evening, to give you a truck of comfortable shoes. I want to be the first and last to see you with a cucumber face pack and sleep thirsty eyes. I want to find out your tattoo and the watch type you swallowed as a little child. I want to make out your office filing system. I want to be able to show the envies what a pretty sight you were in your bride dress, and how much you improved and keep improving me everyday, thus I could deserve you. I want to make you happy, because only this way I'll be on good terms with myself. I need bantering and fooling around with you. I need all of these things. I need you."

"Harm? Earth to Harm! Which wonderland are you in?!"

"Nothing…I'm sorry, I didn't realize you opened the door."

"I see. Do you need anything? I didn't expect you."

"Well…yes…"

I desperately make sure the little metal ring is where I left it thirty seconds ago, in my coat pocket. She's observing me in her own special way. The look she gives me when I'm doing something totally crazy. Like turning up at your best friend door at half past ten pm. without any notice and without any clear reason, and then remaining still and speechless with a stupid look in front of her, actually.

"Well…I can't find out the Carter file. Do you know if I left it here?"

Wait. I cannot really have said that.

"Hold on a minute."

I grasp the handle and pull the door to after me. Mac is so astonished she doesn't even react. Once I'm alone outside her apartment, I carefully look for what I think is a bearing wall and I try and picture my skull print on it. If three ejections wouldn't do, maybe another blow won't do any harm.

I knock again. Mac is still there, motionless. That look's even bolder on her face.

"Mac...I'm proposing. Let's get married."

Eloquence. A successful lawyer's secret.

"Missing Moment #2117", said the cryptic label. The archives attaché was thinking about the children waiting for her at home. Maybe she could go home a few minutes in advance, if she hurried. She couldn't completely understand her duty utility. Since she had been working there, ten years, she had been doing nothing but arranging CDs in metal shelves, in that cellar. As far as she knew, that records wouldn't be broadcasted ever. Only every now and then, an old man named "Don" would go down over there. He would pick one or more CDs, sit down in the little office, and re-emerge only after several hours. He would never talk to her, but she would swear she had overheard from the inside, quite a few times, sentences like "Mine!" "Only me can do it!" and a scoffing and quite childish laugh. The attaché roused herself from her thought in time to arrange the last CD. Shelf 10-S. It was done. Now she could join her children. Maybe they would go out for a pizza. She picked up coat and handbag, had a last look at the room, and turned off the light. While she was climbing the stairs, a sunbeam hit the doorplate, "Belisarius Productions".


End file.
